


Always Red

by MarvelDreamer



Series: The Sadness of Soldiers (Oneshots) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Bad Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Dadza, Hurt No Comfort, Lmanburg, Memories, Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Panic Attacks, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Regret, Straight Angst, Trauma, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, but - Freeform, cuz im uh bi, overall not a fun time, this is just edited from my tumblr to make it longer lmao, well not straight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28855425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelDreamer/pseuds/MarvelDreamer
Summary: Phil liked the color green, but his sons liked red. Whether it was sunsets, or that old red typewriter, or the little red blanket, looking at everything they cherished reminds him of how lonely he is now.If only he'd done something better. If only he'd lead them better. Loved more. Listened to their voices.Now, Phil is alone, haunted by the color red.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: The Sadness of Soldiers (Oneshots) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115954
Comments: 11
Kudos: 172





	Always Red

**Author's Note:**

> Angst Angst hahaha have fun
> 
> the unedited version is on my tumblr pparkerpoetry

You liked green. It was comforting, you thought, but your sons disagreed. While you sat in the grass and stared up at leaves of an apple tree, your sons all preferred the out-of-reach fruit.

The apple tree was their childhood, where they played in the shade and all ran wild, with little wooden swords and joy-filled shouts. You couldn’t help but get scared, though. Your babies in war? You’d never let that happen. They'd be scared, and war isn't a place for children.

Your oldest twin always liked sunsets. He’d go out on the farm and stare out into the sky filled with colors of red and orange. He liked the red, the voices were quieter when he saw and watched, and he often found that he wished that it would be everywhere. Why? Where did he come from? You wouldn’t tell him. Once he’s older. He just needs more time.

The other twin liked raspberry tea while he wrote his songs on a red typewriter. You’d gotten that typewriter for him ages ago, and the dark paint was chipping off. The keys always clacked annoyingly at the worst times, but you’d still always make him his raspberry tea before he went up for a writing session. Why not try a little green tea, you’d always suggest. He always said no. He said that when he stared into the dark liquid, he got his best inspiration. You didn’t know what lyrics he was writing, but as long he was quiet, you didn’t mind.

Your youngest. The chaos that he made always made retirement seem boring. You still remembered what it was like when he was a toddler- he’d come into the house in the summer covered in strawberry stains from his friend’s house, and the red blotches always scared you to death, but he’d laugh and fight you off to avoid a bath. The little one? Quiet? That’d never happen. His spirit would never be tamed, and you loved him for it.

Your oldest made himself a cloak one winter. He was handy like that. You’d offered to get him some nice green fleece- we can match!- but the voices were getting louder at that point. They wanted red. Red what? He didn't know. So, you took him to the store, and he made himself a thick red cloak that he always wore. He didn’t notice that your grin was a little less sincere now. Just a little more time. That’s all you needed.

The middle child. He’d seen his brother make the cloak, but he was too busy drowning in his music to have time to make something, so he took himself to the store and bought a red beanie. He wore that beanie all the time, and though you’d asked him about the color, he said that red pulled him in, and then he went back upstairs. You felt like you should go after him, but you didn’t. What kept you from him? Perhaps everything would’ve gone different if you’d just reached out then.

Of course, when the little one saw his big brothers with the red clothing, he wanted in. He and his best friend had had someone bring them to the store, and he got a white shirt with red sleeves. You thought that it’d get dirty easily, but he kept it clean. He always wore it, but he never got any rips or tears in it. That little guy always was around his best friend. You had a feeling they’d never be separated, but your feelings weren’t always right.

When your oldest got sick once, you made him soup. You suggested chicken noodle, but he wanted tomato. The voices wanted tomato soup. You’d smiled, but you dropped the can and it had broken. The splattering of soup made you sigh, but what scared you was the glimmer of glee that had shone in his eyes when he came to see what the commotion was about. But, him? He was a gentle giant. You’d always have each other. Right?

When the middle child got sick, it was a cold, and you noticed that his nose got red, but other than that, everything seemed fine. You let him go if he said he was okay, and when you slept at night you’d try to ignore his coughs. He wanted independence, right? You weren’t being a bad father, were you?

When the youngest got sick, he hated to admit it. He always strived to be like his brothers, and be all grown up, but when he got sick, it was bad. He’d cuddle up to his red blanket that you never liked. It clashed with the color scheme of the house, but he refused to let it go. His friend had given it to him, and it was one of the most important things that he owned. He looked to his friend, not to you, but as long as he had someone, it was okay. Right? 

You know better now. You know the answers to all of your questions, all of the things that you never wanted to face. You know how wrong you were.

You’re alone, now.

When you look out the window from your prison that they claim is a home, and see that apple tree, you’re reminded of what reality is.

Your oldest is covered in scars, deep, red, and angry. He has been in war, he’s been attacked for who he is, for what he stands for, so he’s gone and left. He lives up in the snow and though you prefer the grass, your oldest…. The voices like the silence. They think better that way. Technoblade is his name, and now, you’ve let him down. You couldn’t protect him, and now you’re kept isolated from everyone, just because you loved your son. He ran out of time.

The middle child… The last time you visited his grave, put up after the last war, you brought roses. You’d always liked other flowers, but he liked roses. The red petals made you look away, but the grey stone that had singed edges makes you look back. Wilbur was his name, and you’ve let him down. You couldn’t save him, and now you’re haunted by his ghost, just because of a decision that you regret. He got his independence.

The youngest. The last time you’d seen him, his eyes had been bloodshot and his clothes had been torn. He'd been raised on war, but surely this wasn't right. You didn’t say anything, because you thought he had his best friend or he hated you, but they brought the news just yesterday. The news of a towering dirt pillar that reached above the clouds and craters that must’ve reminded him of… Tommy was his name, and you let him down. You couldn’t help him, because you thought that he had others. He lost his best friend.

Sunsets seem more painful now. You watch them as long as you can, before you go back inside and tears fill your eyes. You’re reminded of how alone he is, and though you hope that he’s watching the same sky, you dig out the first scarlet cloak that he’d made and hope that the voices lead him like you never did.

You don’t drink tea anymore. When you see the color seep from the tea bag, you’re reminded of how the red liquid had flown from his body. You’re reminded of how you held him, how he begged for you to kill him. You dump the water out with shaking hands before you drop the cup, and find the red beanie that he’d bought. It’s edges are burnt and it smells like smoke, but you hold it and hope that death loves him like you never did.

When people visit you and bring baskets to sympathize, you don’t eat the strawberries. It’s too recent, you think, and you try to go about your day as if you aren’t slowly wasting away. You’re reminded of how carefree he once was, how his voice always echoed around the house. You never liked it then, but you wished for it now. Something felt wrong, but you’ve stopped relying on your feelings since they failed you. You sometimes pull out the little red blanket that’s in remarkable condition considering how valued it was, but it brings up memories, and it’s then that you hope that the sky listens to him like you never did.


End file.
